by Jean M. Auel
Creb had spent time with Ayla nearly every day since they moved into the cave, trying to teach her their language. The rudimentary words, usually the more difficult part for Clan youngsters, she picked up with ease, but their intricate system of gestures and signals was beyond her. He had tried to make her understand the meaning of gestures, but neither had a basis in each other’s method of communicating, and there was no one to interpret or explain. The old man had racked his brain, but he had not been able to think of a way to get the meanings across. Ayla was equally frustrated.
She knew there was something she was missing and she ached to be able to communicate beyond the few words she knew. It was obvious to her that the people of the clan understood more than the simple words, but she just didn’t know how. The problem was that she didn’t see the hand signals. They were random movements to her, not purposeful motions. She simply hadn’t been able to grasp the concept of talking with movement. That it was even possible had never occurred to her; it was totally beyond her realm of experience.
Creb had begun to get an inkling of her problem, though he found it hard to believe. It has to be that she doesn’t know the motions have meaning, he thought. “Ayla!” Creb called, beckoning to the girl. That must be the trouble, he thought as they walked along a path beside the glinting stream. Either that, or she just isn’t intelligent enough to comprehend a language. From his observations, he couldn’t believe she lacked intelligence, for all that she was different. But she does understand simple gestures. He had assumed it would only be a matter of enlarging on them.
Many feet starting out to hunt, forage, or fish in their direction had already beaten down grass and brush forming a path along the line of least resistance. They came to a spot the old man favored, an open stretch near a large, leafy oak whose high exposed roots offered a shaded, raised seat easier for him to rest on than lowering himself to the ground. Starting the lesson, he pointed to the tree with his staff.
“Oak,” Ayla quickly responded. Creb nodded approval, then he aimed his staff at the stream.
“Water,” the girl said.
The old man nodded again, then made a motion with his hand and repeated the word. “Flowing water, river,” the combined gesture and word stated.
“Water?” the girl said hesitantly, puzzled that he had indicated her word was correct but asked her again. She was getting a feeling of panic deep in her stomach. It was the same as before, she knew there was something more he wanted, but she didn’t understand.
Creb shook his head no. He had gone over the same kind of exercises with the child many times. He tried again, pointing to her feet.
“Feet,” Ayla said.
“Yes,” the magician nodded. Somehow I must make her see. as well as hear, he thought. Getting up, he took her hand and walked a few steps with her, leaving his staff behind. He made a motion and said the word “feet.” “Moving feet, walking,” was the sense he was trying to communicate. She strained to listen, trying to hear if there was something she missed in his tone.
“Feet?” the child said tremulously, sure it was not the answer he wanted.
“No, no, no! Walking! Feet moving!” he repeated again, looking directly at her, exaggerating the gesture. He moved her forward again, pointing at her feet, despairing that she would ever learn.
Ayla could feel tears begin to well up in her eyes. Feet! Feet! She knew it was the right word, why did he shake his head no? I wish he’d stop moving his hand around in front of my face like that. What am I doing wrong?
The old man walked her forward again, pointed at her feet, made the motion with his hand, said the word. She stopped and watched him. He made the gesture again, exaggerating it so much it almost meant something else, said the word again. He was bent over, looking her squarely in the face, making the motion directly in front of her eyes. Gesture, word. Gesture, word.
What does he want? What am I supposed to do? She wanted to understand him. She knew he was trying to tell her something. Why does he keep moving his hand? she thought.
Then the barest glimmer of an idea came to her. His hand! He keeps moving his hand. She lifted her hand hesitantly.
“Yes, yes! That’s it!” Creb’s vigorous affirmative nodding almost shouted. “Make the signal! Moving! Moving feet!” he repeated.
With dawning comprehension, she watched his motion, then tried to copy it. Creb was saying yes! That’s what he wants! The movement! He wants me to make the movement.
She made the gesture again saying the word, not understanding what it meant, but at least understanding that it was the gesture he wanted her to make when she said the word. Creb turned her around and headed back to the oak, limping heavily. Pointing to her feet again as she moved, he repeated the gesture-word combination once again.
Suddenly, like an explosion in her brain, she made the connection. Moving on feet! Walking! That’s what he means! Not just feet. The hand movement with the word “feet” means walking! Her mind raced. She remembered always seeing the people of the clan moving their hands. She could see Iza and Creb in her mind’s eye, standing, looking at each other, moving their hands, saying few words, but moving their hands. Were they talking? Is that how they talk to each other? Is that why they say so little? Do they talk with their hands?
Creb seated himself. Ayla stood in front of him, trying to calm her excitement.
“Feet,” she said, pointing down to hers.
“Yes,” he nodded, wondering.
She turned and walked away, and as she approached him again, she made the gesture and said the word “feet.”
“Yes, yes! That’s it! That’s the idea!” he said. She has it! I think she understands!
The girl paused for a moment, then turned and ran away from him. After running back across the small clearing, she waited expectantly in front of him again, a little out of breath.
“Running,” he motioned as she watched carefully. It was a different movement; like the first, but different.
“Running,” her hesitant motion mimicked.
She does have it!
Creb was excited. The movement was gross, it lacked the finesse of even the young children of the clan, but she had the idea. He nodded vigorously and was almost knocked off his seat as Ayla threw herself at him, hugging him in joyful understanding.
The old magician looked around. It was almost instinctive. Gestures of affection were confined to the boundaries of the fire. But he knew they were alone. The crippled man responded with a gentle hug and felt a glow of warmth and satisfaction he had never felt before.
A whole new world of comprehension opened up for Ayla. She had an innate dramatic flair and a talent for mimicry which she put to use with deadly earnest copying Creb’s motions. But Creb’s one-handed speaking gestures were necessarily adaptations of normal hand signals, and it was Iza who taught her the finer details. She learned as a baby would, starting with expressions of simple needs, but she learned much faster. Too long had she been frustrated in her attempts to communicate; she was determined to make up for the lack as quickly as possible.
As she began to understand more, the life of the clan sprang into vivid relief. She watched the people around her as they communicated, staring in rapt attention, trying to grasp what they were saying to each other. At first the clan was tolerant of her visual intrusion, treating her like a baby. But as time went on, disapproving glances cast in her direction made it obvious that such ill-mannered behavior would not be accepted much longer. Staring, like eavesdropping, was discourteous; custom dictated that the eyes should be averted when other people were in private discussion. The problem came to a head one evening in midsummer.
The clan was inside the cave, gathered around their family fires after the evening meal. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the last dim afterglow outlined the leafy silhouettes of dark foliage rustling in the gentle night breeze. The fire at the mouth of the cave, lit to fend off evil spirits, curious predators, and the damp night air, sent up wisps of smo
ke and shimmering heat waves, making the shadowed black trees and brush beyond undulate to the silent rhythm of the flickering flames. Its light danced with shadows on the rough rock wall of the cave.
Ayla sat within the stones that outlined Creb’s territory staring across at Brun’s household. Broud was upset and taking it out on his mother and Oga by exercising his prerogatives as an adult male. The day had started out badly for Broud and got worse. Long hours spent tracking and stalking were wasted when he missed his shot, and the red fox, whose pelt he had grandly promised to Oga, melted into the dense brash only warned by the swiftly slung stone. Oga’s looks of understanding forgiveness just hurt his wounded pride more; he was the one who should be forgiving of her inadequacies, not the other way around.
The women, tired from a busy day, were trying to finish their last chores, and Ebra, exasperated by his constant interruptions, made a slight signal to Brun. The leader had been more than aware of the young man’s imperious, demanding behavior. It was Broud’s right, but Brun felt he should be more sensitive to them. It wasn’t necessary to make them run for everything when they were already so busy and tired.
“Broud, let the women alone. They have enough to do,” Brun signaled in silent reprimand. The rebuke was too much, especially in front of Oga, and from Brun. Broud stomped off to the far edge of the territory of Brun ’s hearth near the boundary stones to sulk and caught sight of Ayla staring directly at him. It didn’t matter that Ayla had barely caught the drift of the subtle domestic squabble within the confines of the adjacent household; as far as Broud was concerned, the ugly little interloper had seen him scolded just like a child. It was the final crushing blow to his tender ego. She doesn’t even have the courtesy to look away, he thought. Well, she’s not the only one who can ignore simple politeness. All the day’s frustrations overflowed, and flaunting conventions on purpose, Broud directed a malevolent glare across the boundaries at the girl he detested.
Creb was conscious of the mild spat at Brun’s hearth, just as he was aware of all the people in the cave. Most of the time, like background noise, it was filtered out of his consciousness, but anything that involved Ayla sharpened his attention. He knew it had taken deliberate effort and supremely malignant intent for Broud to overcome the conditioning of his entire life and stare directly into the confines of another man’s hearth. Broud feels too much animosity toward the child, Creb thought. For her sake, it is time to teach her some manners.
“Ayla!” Creb commanded sharply. She jumped at the tone in his voice. “Not look other people!” he signaled. She was puzzled.
“Why not look?” she queried.
“Not look, not stare; people not like,” he tried to explain, aware that Broud was watching out of the corner of his eye, not even bothering to hide his gloating pleasure at the strong scolding the girl was receiving from Mog-ur. She is favored too much by the magician anyway, Broud thought. If she lived here, I’d show her soon enough how a female is supposed to behave.
“Want learn talk,” Ayla motioned, still puzzled and a little hurt.
Creb knew full well why she had been watching, but she had to learn sometime. Perhaps it would ease Broud’s hatred of her if he saw she was being rebuked for staring at them.
“Ayla not stare,” Creb motioned with a severe look. “Bad. Ayla not talk back when man talks. Bad. Ayla not look at people at their hearths. Bad. Bad. Understand?”
Creb was harsh. He wanted to make his point. He noticed Broud get up and return to the fireplace at Brun’s call, obviously in a better mood.
Ayla was crushed. Creb had never been harsh with her. She thought he was pleased that she was learning their language; now he told her she was bad for watching people and trying to learn more. Confused and hurt, tears welled up, filled her eyes, and overflowed down her cheeks.
“Iza!” Creb called, concerned. “Come here! There’s something wrong with Ayla’s eyes.” The eyes of Clan people watered only when something got in them or if they had colds or suffered from eye disease. He had never seen eyes overflowing with tears of unhappiness. Iza came running up.
“Look at that! Her eyes are watering. Maybe a spark got into one. You’d better take a look at them,” he insisted.
Iza was worried, too. Lifting Ayla’s eyelids, she peered closely into the child’s eyes. “Eye hurt?” she asked. The medicine woman could see no sign of inflammation. Nothing appeared to be wrong with her eyes, they were just watering.
“No, not hurt,” Ayla sniffled. She couldn’t understand their concern about her eyes, but it made her realize they cared about her even if Creb did say she was bad. “Why Creb mad, Iza?” she sobbed.
“Must learn, Ayla,” Iza explained, looking at the girl seriously. “Not polite to stare. Not polite to look at other man’s fire, see what other people say at fire. Ayla must learn, when man talk, woman look down, like this,” Iza demonstrated. “When man talk, woman do. No ask. Only little ones stare. Babies. Ayla big. Make people angry at Ayla.” “
Creb angry? Not care for me?” she asked, bursting out in fresh tears.
Iza was still mystified by the child’s watering eyes, but she sensed the girl’s confusion. “Creb care for Ayla. Iza, too. Creb teach Ayla. More to learn than talk. Must learn Clan ways,” the woman said, taking the girl in her arms. She held her gently while Ayla cried her hurt, then wiped the girl’s wet swollen eyes with a soft skin and looked into them again to satisfy herself they were all right.
“What’s wrong with her eyes?” Creb asked. “Is she sick?”
“She thought you didn’t like her. She thought you were mad at her. It must have given her a sickness. Maybe light eyes like hers are weak, but I can’t find anything wrong and she says they don’t hurt. I think her eyes watered with sadness, Creb,” Iza explained.
“Sadness? She was so sad because she thought I didn’t like her, it made her sick? Made her eyes water?”
The astounded man could hardly believe it, and it filled him with mixed emotions. Was she sickly? She seemed healthy, but no one ever got sick because they thought he didn’t like them. No one, except Iza, had ever cared for him in that way. People feared him, held him in awe, respected him, but no one had ever wanted him to like them so much their eyes watered. Maybe Iza is right, maybe her eyes are weak, but her sight is fine. Somehow I must let her know it is for her own good that she learns to behave properly. If she doesn’t learn the ways of the Clan, Brun will turn her out. It is still within his power. But it doesn’t mean I don’t like her. I do like her, he admitted to himself strange as she is, I like her very much.
Ayla shuffled slowly toward the crippled old man, nervously looking down at her feet. She stood in front of him, then looked up with sad round eyes, still wet with tears.
“I not stare anymore,” she gestured. “Creb not mad?”
“No,” he signaled, “I’m not mad, Ayla. But you belong to the clan now, you belong to me. You must learn the language, but you must learn Clan ways, too. Understand?”
“I belong Creb? Creb care for me?” she asked.
“Yes, I like you, Ayla.”
The girl broke into a smile, reached out and hugged him, then crawled into the lap of the disfigured, misshapen man and snuggled close.
Creb had always had an interest in children. In his function as Mog-ur, he seldom revealed a child’s totem that wasn’t immediately understood by the child’s mother as appropriate. The clan attributed Mog-ur’s skill to his magical powers, but his real skill lay in his powers of perceptive observation. He was aware of children from the day they were born and often saw women and men alike cuddling and comforting them. But the old cripple never knew the joy of cradling a child in his own arms.
The little girl, worn out by her emotions, had fallen asleep. She felt secure with the fearsome magician. He had replaced in her heart a man she no longer remembered except in some unconscious corner. As Creb looked at the peaceful, trusting face of the strange girl in his lap, he felt a deep love flowering in hi
s soul for her. He couldn’t have loved her more if she were his own.
“Iza,” the man called out softly. The woman took the sleeping child from Creb, but not before he hugged her to him for a moment.
“Her illness has made her tired,” he said after the woman laid her down. “Make sure she rests tomorrow and you’d better examine her eyes again in the morning.”
“Yes, Creb,” she nodded. Iza loved her crippled sibling; she knew more than anyone the gentle soul that lived beneath the grim exterior. It made her happy that he had found someone to love, someone who loved him, too, and it made her feelings for the girl stronger.
Not since she was a little girl herself could ha remember being so happy. Only her nagging fear that the child she was carrying would be male marred her joy. A son born to her would have to be raised by a hunter. She was Brun’s sibling; their mother had been the mate of the leader before him. If something happened to Broud, or if the woman he mated produced no male offspring, the leadership of the clan would fall to her son, if she had one. Brun would be forced to give her and the baby to one of the hunters, or take her in himself. Every day she asked her totem to make her unborn baby a girl, but she couldn’t rid herself of her worry.
As the summer progressed, with Creb’s gentle patience and Ayla’s eager willingness, the girl began to understand not only the language but the customs of her adopted people. Learning to avert her eyes to allow the people of the Clan the only privacy possible to them was only the first of many hard lessons. Much more difficult was learning to curb her natural curiosity and impetuous enthusiasm to conform to the customary docility of females.
